Dear Editor

You son of a bitch, you take all the good shit out, and now you post harmless shit as if it  was from me! I hate your fucking guts. If there is a single thing I’d like to say to you it is Fuck you, you soulless bastard! You have no idea of life as it is truly lived. For you, everything is just words, just possible meanings and possible interpretations. You’re a fucking hairsplitter, you even split the fucking split hairs. You’re insane, completely off the register asshole fucker. You have bo idea. If I could I would kill you. Fortunately for you I am a pacifist and a coward, otherwise I wo7uld get myself a gun and shoot you in the fucking head. Headxshot, motherfucker, kill your ass. I got friends, the<y’ll break your legs if you keep fucking with my writing. You know I care about that. They’ll do it for a fucking case of German beer, motherfucker. You know I would do that, even if I wouldn’t kill you myself, so stop fucking with my prose, asshole! Next time I see something wrong I’ll send the Hungarians, you son of a bitch! You didn’t post anything for months, though I wrote and wrote, what the fuck? Ain’t it good enough for you, you fucking jerk? What do you fucking know?
You know what I am listening to now, you fucking scum of the earth? Dancing in Your Head. If the Hungarians don’t work out I’ll set a fucking voodoo on you. Yeah, now you’re wondering, aren’t you? I’ve got your fucxking hair, motherfucxkere, set a fucking voodoo on you, nails in your headdd. Believe nme, ain’t facing around anymore, Christ!
And no money either… you promised me! Fucker!
[Note from the Editor: Uneditet]

The Blog…

… has been languishing. Languishing badly indeed. There were things Hellstrøm could have posted, but… nah. They weren’t ripe. It’s not like Hellstrøm hasn’t been writing, but it wasn’t the right stuff for the blog, or it just wasn’t ripe. Write, let it lie, look at it sometime, write more, edit, write more, cross out half of it because it’s shit, write again, it’s still shit, and so on… That’s the way it goes, and it isn’t something that fits itself to the blog. Fifty and more posts in petto, it goes its own way, and one picks and chooses what comes in the blog, because God knows Hellstrøm doesn’t want to expose you to everything he writes, nor does he want to expose everything he writes to you. He is a judicious son of a bitch, and you should be thankful for that. It’s bad enough as it is.
But, in spite of not wanting to encourage anyone to expect a surge of posts, I can say that there may be a couple of things coming. Have a seat, brace yourself, haha! No, but seriously, you know that joke about the fleas in a New York hotel, the ones with hunched backs…?
The main problem with writing things for the blog, to be honest, is that most of it is foolish drunken ranting. There may be a grain of truth in drunken ranting, but you have to be drunk in order to do it. Or, to be more specific, you need not only be drunk, but be drunk alone. Can’t write in company, for Christ’s sake, writing is a solitary occupation. And if your life is normal, you don’t get drunk alone, nor are you alone at all very often, late at night, in front of the computer, in a writing mood. Which is to say that Hellstrøm’s life has become somewhat more normal, no real desire to get drunk alone. Besides, Hellstrøm may write drunk, but his editor is stone sober in the morning. God help the son of a bitch (which one?).
The fact is, Hellstrøm is getting on in years, and even Hellstrøm can’t stem the tide, much as he’d like to. He has responsibilities, the old bat. One might almost say he’s become a responsible person. Almost. He manages to steal away, now and again, and he always hedges his responsibilities to an acceptable level. In spite of all the requirements he has no intention of ever meeting anyway. If there is one thing Hellstrøm knows how to do, it is staving off the world to keep himself from going insane. Hellstrøm will always fight them off (I haven’t the slightest idea who they are). Just because he’s paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get ’im. He’s a million miles away, motherfucker, you’ll never get ’im, and though he loves writing all this shit, he doesn’t give a flying damn if anyone reads it. He’s got other brands in the fire, other cats to whip.
Hellstrøm is doin’ good, God damn his dirty little soul. He don’t deserve it, but he ain’t been abused lately. Try as he will to make it all bad, he’s doing good. The devil braying outside his door is being ignored. God only knows how long it’ll go on, but he’s taking full advantage of the situation. He’s a hound that’s taken the scent, and he won’t let off until it’s reached its end. He has the feeling it never will. He wants more. He’s riding the Big Wave, he’s cruisin’. How much longer? Well, good luck to him, the sucker. At the bottom of his soul, in spite of it all, he was always naíve. On the other hand he’s an old codger, so look out. It’s a dangerous combination.
Listening to Jubilee Street from Nick Cave. Look at him now. And then Ska Fort Rock from the Skatalites. God damn, let those horns take you away…!